16 Souls

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

November — Two Months After the Trial

Churchill Lounge, Brown Palace Hotel

“I’d almost think you’re holding court here,” Scott Bogosian said with a chuckle as he re-packed his notebooks and digital recorder into a backpack. “You actually look like a regular, relaxing in that huge leather chair.”

Marty Mitchell smiled in response. “Well, you told me last month that you love this old lounge and all the cigar smoke, and I now see why.”

“I gotta get back.”

“How’s it going at the Post?”

Scott chuckled again. “Always be careful what you wish for. I so wanted to be a beat reporter again, and here I am, beat most of the time!”

“I take it that’s an old newspaperman joke?”

“More or less. No, I’m really enjoying it, but writing your story and getting it accepted by the right publisher is going to be quite a task. Thank you again, Marty, for agreeing to help. Any word from Regal?”

Marty’s smile broadened. “I’m told I’ll hear from them any day now with a new training date. I’m non-current, so I’ll have to go back through retraining.”

“That’s wonderful!”

“Not official yet, but the NTSB findings pretty much put them in a corner.”

“You mean about the garbled radio calls?”

“Yes… all around. The controller was confused, we were confused, and what it really says is that we’ve got to get past this seventy-year old antiquated method of push-to-talk, simplex radio being our main means of passing altitude and heading information.”

“I’ll bet that’s a huge relief.”

Marty sat forward, his expression changing to one of great seriousness.

“I lost five people that night, and injured eight. I don’t care how garbled the radio was, I should have kept pressing until I absolutely knew where we were supposed to be. That will haunt me forever.”

Scott nodded. “You are now, though, the least likely airline captain on the planet to ever go to the wrong altitude again.”

“Very true.”

“You hanging around?”

“Nope. I have a lunch date in the lobby restaurant.”

“Oh. A new lady in your life?”

“My lawyer. And… yes. Maybe. I hope so.”

Several blocks away in the home offices of Walters, Wilson, and Crandall, Judith Winston glanced at her watch and calculated whether she could still make it to the restaurant on time. She hated being late for anything.

The lunch invitation from Marty Mitchell had not necessarily been a surprise, but the postscript to his email definitely had been — an invitation to spend a weekend with him hiking around Rocky Mountain National Park. There was no professional purpose to be served by such an enterprise, she thought with a smile, so it had to be classified as a date. She had hesitated no more than a few seconds before accepting.

Judith was pulling on her ankle length coat when a familiar face appeared in the firm’s main lobby, and she rushed to greet him.

“Joel! How are you?”

“Doing well, Kiddo,” he said with a smile. “I miss spending all those high-stress, anxious days and nights with you and the team and the cold pizza!”

“We miss you, too. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“I was just passing by and wanted to drop something off to you, for your eyes only.”

“What’s that?”

“A little slip of paper from the Mitchell jury that never got formally read into the record.”

“A slip of paper?”

“From the foreman. Look at it later. I gotta run.”

She gave the old veteran defense lawyer a hug and watched him wave as he stepped onto the elevator. When the doors had closed, Judith stood and looked at the folded note in her hand without opening it.

The praise from the senior partners, including Roger Crandall, had been greatly appreciated, yet there was still an undercurrent of self-doubt leaching away at the victory — a victory won thanks to the detective work of a good reporter and the integrity of a widower — not by the prowess of her lawyering. What if Moscone hadn’t come forward? The question was haunting.

Judith forced herself to walk over to an elaborate brass trash can and open the lid. She stood there for a few seconds gazing at the still-folded note in her hand and re-checking her gut reaction that whatever it contained didn’t matter.

No. I don’t ever want to know! she decided, tossing the note in the trash can and turning to push through the double-glass doors, hitting the elevator call button while tapping her foot lightly, anxious to get away from temptation.

One of the office cleaning staff was moving her way with his cart, starting the evening routine that would begin with emptying the trashcans.

The elevator opened at last and Judith hesitated. The two passengers inside the car were staring out, wondering what was going on. She glanced back at the office doors, her eyes landing on the trash can, the seconds ticking by.

And just as the elevator doors began to close, Judith Winston forced herself to take a deep breath and step inside.